


A Madness Most Discreet

by fauxpromises



Series: A Madness Most Discreet [1]
Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: F/M, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Guilt, Identity Reveal, Implied Relationships, Mother-Son Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-10
Updated: 2014-12-15
Packaged: 2018-02-24 19:54:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2594417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fauxpromises/pseuds/fauxpromises
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Scout was trying so hard to let his mother be happy while fighting the instinct to protect a supposedly dead father that he still felt loyalty to. A father he had never even met.</p><p>Blind loyalty, he knew, was perhaps the worst kind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This takes place before the MvM events, just for your reference.

His drive from work always went the same way these days. He would leave RED's base—wherever that happened to be for the day—at around six o'clock, just as the sun sank below the mountains. The journey did not usually last very long, given the desolate nature of the highway and the fact that his sporty car could push exorbitant speeds when he felt like it.

To his disappointment, however, a police roadblock caused him to take an alternate route on this occasion. The Spy had rolled his eyes when he heard the radio report that a carjacker was on the loose in the area and the locations where police checkpoints were being set up. He only hoped he would be home before dinner was cold, lest a certain woman give him that stern scowl and teasing scold when he came in through the door.

What surprised him, then, was to see a figure walking alongside the road a few hundred yards ahead.

He slowed the car a bit as he approached, noticing the equipment bag the man was holding and the shape of his body. Lean, long legs, a jacket loosely hanging about his form. No BLU uniform this time, not after hours anyway, but his identity was unmistakeable.

Everything in him commanded him _not_ to stop, because he knew who this man was, and being alone with him was not something he was prepared for.

And yet there he found himself, braking right alongside the boy. _Man_ , he corrected himself for the thousandth time, because he had not been a boy for quite a long time now. He cracked the window down, a small flinch at the wave of cold desert air that hit him, watching expectantly as the other mercenary turned his head to look behind him.

The Frenchman wasn't too surprised to see a reluctant smirk appear on the Scout's face. “'Ey, it's the backstabbin' asswipe. Long time no see.”

Some sarcasm was present in his comment. The Spy rolled his eyes, appreciative that they had been able to reconcile recently for the sake of the woman in both their lives, but nonetheless put off. He declined to engage in that line of conversation.

“For what reason could you _possibly_ be walking home in this weather?” he scoffed, genuinely perplexed. “You make more than enough for a _car_. For an entire _lot_ of them.”

The younger man shrugged. “Eh, it's in the shop. I'm down a ride for a few days. Didn't wanna be seen in that piece'a shit rental they offered me. Chick _repellant_. 'Sides, I ain't got a problem with exercise.”

“Do you live far from here?” the Spy asked, already fully aware of where the boy lived. A small suburban apartment less than five miles east, in the opposite direction he was heading himself.

“Like hell I'm gonna tell you where I live.” His eyes were a bit distrusting, but he seemed to be forgetting something.

The RED mercenary took his turn to shrug. “Fine. I'll ask your mother when I see her tonight.” He eased on the brake, as if to drive forward, but the Scout lunged forward to catch up with him frantically.

“Ah—no, no! It's in that direction,” he gestured quickly, expression unsettled. Anything to keep him away from his mother, the Spy supposed, though that wasn't going to be happening. “Why? Y'gonna—”

The other man cut him off before he could make up some vague assumption of what the Spy would do to him if he knew where he lived. “—give you a ride, if you can act like an adult about it. She'll be glad to hear you aren't out walking in the cold, and I'll be happy if she's happy, _non?_ ”

A slight furrow came into the Scout's brow. He clearly had not been expecting much concern from his enemy, even if they _were_ on much better terms with each other than before.

“Forget the delusions of nobility. You _look_ cold. I mean—your nose is red.”

He froze after the words had left his mouth, an odd sense of familiarity lingering at the edge of his thoughts. His mind could distinctly remember the very same exchange taking place on another occasion. Over twenty years ago—a winter morning, a coffee shop in Boston, his dark-haired partner quirking an eyebrow at him from over the table as he contained his amusement.

_"What?" she scoffed, touching her cheek. "Do I have somethin' on my face?"_

_He shook his head, eyes wandering back down to the table. "Your nose is red."_

His professionalism forced this out of his mind as he unlocked the passenger door, eying the other man intensely. He heard the Scout mutter a slightly embarrassed _'fine'_ as he clambered in, dropped the bag of bats at his feet, and crossed his arms in a poor attempt at being nonchalant.

There were no words between them as he drove on. The radio jabbered on—a weather report, some local news. He could tell from his periphery that the Scout was staring straight ahead. They had only driven perhaps a mile before he caught the Bostonian reclining, his feet going up on the dash.

“Feet _down,_ ” he threatened passively, though obviously with enough force to elicit a hasty compliance. “Ah, so you _can_ be taught.”

The added derision brought the Scout back to his senses at last. He repositioned in the seat, and the Spy presumed his expression was one of passive indignation as the silence persisted once more.

True to his ungrudging nature, it did not take long for him to decide to start up some small talk. _Forgiving_ , the older man thought with an uncomfortable feeling of frustration, despite the circumstances.

“Eh, so, I'm guessin' from what you said earlier, you and Ma are still...?”

Another rolling of the eyes. The boy was _terrible_ at small talk. “ _Yes_. Weren't you the one who was afraid that I would abandon her—oh—three days ago?”

He shook his head. “I dunno. Just kinda worried about her I guess—haven't had much time to stop by lately.”

And she had noticed that for sure, the Frenchman thought. It interested him that of their sons, she had the most concern for this one—though perhaps it was because he had always been the one who _needed_ an eye kept on him.

“She is quite well,” the Spy finally replied. “But that doesn't mean you shouldn't _find_ some time to visit her.”

He could see the Scout hunching over a bit, biting at a hangnail. He seemed ill at ease, though it wasn't hard to imagine why. The gap of skill and experience between them was quite large, and the trust was still reluctant at best.

“I dunno. Last time I saw her, she seemed pretty happy. Dunno if I got you to thank for that or not.” He glanced out the window, perhaps for the first time since he had gotten into the car. Didn't seem eager to turn his back.

There was something that made his stomach turn slightly about the way the Scout said this. The struggle in him had seemed very apparent in their tentatively companionable conversations, few though they had been. He was trying so hard to let his mother be happy while fighting the instinct to protect a supposedly dead father that he still felt loyalty to. A father he had never even met.

Blind loyalty, he knew, was perhaps the worst kind.

And even now, the Spy thought to himself, he was toying with the boy's emotions. Without even _meaning to._ All for the sake of a facade he had sworn he would break ages ago.

As he drove through the small apartment complex, the younger man gestured in the direction of his residence. The feeling inside of him had turned to a dull nausea, because he had made the decision to do something on impulse—impromptu, perhaps. Something he had ruminated on not for days or weeks, but for years. Something that _needed_ to be done.

The Scout hefted his bag out after him as he exited the vehicle. He saluted jokingly as he made eye contact with the driver. “Ah, well. I guess thanks for the ride, Sp—”

He paused, chuckling suddenly. “Fuck's sake, guy's datin' my Ma and I don't even got a name to call him by. Red? Frenchy, maybe?”

The Spy glanced away from his gaze, looking straight ahead. He braced himself as though he were about to be struck. The only way he knew how to attack was by surprise, and this instance was no exception.

“ _Fontaine_ , actually. Renard Fontaine.”

The only thing he heard as he drove away was the sound of the bag of bats hitting the ground with a loud _thud._

He did not look back.


	2. Chapter 2

He found her seated cross-legged on the love seat, a glass of wine clutched firmly in hand, as he slid in through the front door. The Spy did not quite know what to expect to hear from her at this point—only that he had no doubts that their son had contacted her long before he had even arrived home. Her anxious glance at him merely confirmed the theory.

“Could've _told_ me, Rey,” she sighed, setting the glass beside her on the end table. The Frenchman shrugged sheepishly as his wife crossed the room to meet him. “Y'know—I mean, some warnin' would've been nice. One minute I'm watchin' the evening news, lookin' forward to some company this weekend. Next my youngest is demandin' to know why my _boyfriend_ knows his father's name.”

One eyebrow arched slightly as the Spy felt her head lean on his shoulder, his expression hidden by the mask that he hadn't the chance to remove yet. Whether she was making an attempt at comforting herself or him, he could not quite discern.

He forced a chuckle. “I had a feeling after it sank in, he'd go straight to denial.”

The woman seemed to pick up on his anxiety beneath the nonchalant tone, one hand wandering up to touch his face gently. “What, y'think I ain't proud of you for what you did? I been tellin' you ever since he was—oh, sixteen or so? The boys're all plenty old enough for the truth at this point. Once they figured out Santa ain't real and all, I thought they could handle knowin' their father's an international criminal. Right?”

Her playful ribbing relieved his anxiety the slightest bit, the arm he had slid about her waist subconsciously pulling her in closer.

“He was angry at you.” The Spy shook his head as he spoke it, a statement rather than a question. “I had hoped to avoid driving a wedge between the two of you. But by now, I think it is almost inevitable that he will blame you for being complicit, no matter what either of us say.”

“Complicit?” she repeated. “At least half of it's my fault, bein' my idea to keep them in the dark about all this.”

His eyebrows came together in a thoughtful frown. “The fact that you've covered for my career choice, Kathryn. _That's_ what makes it _my_ fault, and mine alone.”

He could feel her smirking against his neck. “Yeah, and you had made your choice before I even met'cha. My fault for pickin' you.”

She laughed deviously as she felt the growl in his throat. He always lost to her in these games, and he almost resented her for not allowing him his martyrdom. If only she would let him shoulder this burden alone, he felt it would put his mind more at ease than knowing she had to suffer beside him. But he suspected she felt that their status as partners for life meant that it was as important to her that she share this with him as it was for him to protect her from the consequences his choices had brought about.

Finally he released a world-weary sigh, allowing her the victory. “So then? He doesn't even believe it now, I take it?”

“Nah.” She shook her head slightly. “I could tell from the way he was talkin'—he knows it's true. I even think he might'a been suspicious about it. His Ma with a new man all of a sudden, after all that time raisin' them alone? I mean, more than the others, he had always hoped his father was missin', not dead. But then he still _sounded_ like he'd just seen a ghost—should've heard him on the end of the line. Never seen him so, well. Sobered, I guess.”

“Disappointed,” the mercenary corrected her quietly. “He might have been amicable enough toward me, in time, but I doubt he thinks highly enough to accept me as...”

He trailed off as she rubbed his back comfortingly. It pained him to some degree to act vulnerable like this, something that took a careful transition in order for him to surrender his pride and let her absolve him of the burdens he always carried.

“I never told 'em anything about you that wasn't true. Some phony bullshit story—that's stuff for the movies. You're pretty damn impressive exactly as you are, for what it's worth.”

A smile matched the warmth in her eyes as he stole a glance down at her. She was a smaller woman, especially compared to him, and yet she fit perfectly in his arms. He liked that.

“And the others? Now that one knows, it's only a matter of time until—”

She rolled her eyes. “They'll be _fine._ You know how Ricky is. Youngest always needs a hero most of all.

“No one needs a hero that fires upon them on a daily basis,” he replied, all deadpan disgust.

“I dunno how well y'know him, but I can tell you for sure that he don't take things _half_ as personally as you do,” his wife replied sharply. Sometimes he believed quite thoroughly that she used the same scolding mother tone on him as she had the boys.

“That remains to be seen.”

The silence lapsed for several moments as he pondered for a moment, wondering—where would they go from here? Did he allow the boy to confront him before they returned to their daily duties the following week? Surely playing out this drama on the battlefield would be a grave mistake that could cost them their jobs, or even their lives. The thought of the lunatics he called teammates getting involved in the whole mess was equally distasteful.

“Did he want to—ah—see me, then?” It was putting it a bit nicely, considering he expected the Scout may very well throw a punch when he finally got the chance to see him face to face.

He caught her cringing slightly. “I dunno about _want_ , but it might be better to deal with this—y'know. Outside of work,” she added this last part more delicately, echoing his own sentiments.

“Maybe let him sleep on it, though,” she quickly finished, her eyes darting up to focus on his own blue ones. “Ain't always the best idea to strike when the iron's hot, if y'ask me.”

The Spy sighed once more, not exactly comforted at the thought of proceeding with this. He preferred to take the most efficient path when it came to conflict resolution, which more often than not resulted in death for the opposing party. He was, in the end, an assassin—diplomacy wasn't exactly his forte.

“C'mon, just forget about it for a few minutes and take a seat. I got some dinner still warm, and I think I could probably squeeze another glass for you out of that bottle.” She eyed the wine sitting on the table meaningfully, provoking a small chuckle out of him.

“Let us eat and drink,” he replied sarcastically, “for tomorrow, we die.”


	3. Chapter 3

His fist hung hesitantly in the air for a few moments as he contemplated the old doubts that still threatened his usually unshaken confidence. Certainly not the first time, but most assuredly the last, and it was for this very reason that he gradually lowered his hand and scowled.

How utterly unbelievable, he thought, that after years of remaining steadfast and aloof in the face of a looming and violent possibility of death, this unresolved personal matter had been what caught up to him first. Only his own conscience could be blamed for that. He simply could not sever himself completely from anything that involved her.

Maybe that was the odd thing about his loyalty to her. The effects—and the consequences—were so incredibly subtle. They governed him without the need for conscious and deliberate forethought. And here he was, such a very sharp and deadly man, utterly content with this truth.

Textbook insanity to some, perhaps, but to him it was simply the definition of love. His pride took a backseat to this.

Taking in a short breath through his nose, the Spy raised his fist again and hit in three abrupt knocks. Without a car parked near the apartment, he couldn't even be sure that the younger man was home at all. He didn't consider the fact that this might be wishful thinking as he waited for a reply.

And after a minute or so, the reply came. Door cracked slightly open, blue eyes and scrutinous face appearing.

The Spy nonchalantly brushed at his suit—for once not the characteristic RED uniform—in a concealed gesture of insecurity. His eyes fell back on the Scout, who had pulled the door more fully open.

“Wasn't really expectin' you'd be the one to show up here,” he muttered softly, eyebrows raised a bit. “I mean—yesterday—”

“—was rather cowardly on my part.” The Frenchman spoke it harshly. “It was unfair.”

His son shrugged as he leaned on the door frame impatiently. “Kinda hard to think of _fair_ when it comes t'you. But Ma—she wanted me to give you a chance. I'll do it for her—if I gotta.” He folded his arms, more abrasive than before.

It struck the Spy as interesting, how the boy was remaining calmly detached from the implications of their situation. That was perhaps a similarity they shared, though not one he had expected. He had most likely mulled this over the night before and come to a place of apathy.

“You probably oughta come inside, I guess,” the BLU added, gesturing inward. He didn't seem particularly thrilled at the idea. “I don't wanna lose my job over this.”

The older man stepped inside as the Scout headed over to an adjacent room. He closed the door behind him quietly, out of habit, and followed after. It appeared to be a slightly shabby living area, only one chair and a TV arranged there. The Scout glanced over at him expectantly from the beat-up armchair that he had already flopped down upon.

“So, what're you doin' here then? Y'know, I ain't lookin' for any apologies. Heard enough of them from Ma already.”

The Spy cast him an unamused frown. “An apology at this point would be grossly inappropriate. What was said and done—what you thought before. There was a reason for it, and it is not one that I regret.”

“Yeah. I heard all about it.” His shoulders lowered slightly as he leaned forward in the chair. “But you didn't answer my question. Why _are_ y'here?”

“Would saying 'trying to make amends' sound too noble?” he smirked back, shrugging shortly.

To the Spy's surprise, the young man actually _chuckled_. “Depends. You start, and I'll see as we go.”

“You have to answer one question for me first,” the calm reply came. “Then, I'll tell you whatever you'd like to know.”

“And that'd be?”

The RED mercenary kept his silence for a moment, eyes darting over to an unknown location. It was an abashed gesture he could only ever recall doing in the presence of his wife, extending back to before they had even married.

“Would you say...” he began, hands coming together. “That is, do you—”

The Scout inclined his head slightly, an expectant raising of an eyebrow. His father quickly finished.

“—hate me?”

His voice had dropped considerably, almost regretful despite claims to the contrary. “For lying to you, that is. And for whatever pain you saw your mother go through, because I wasn't around.”

“Lyin' to me?” the boy quipped back, his accent turning it harsh. “I mean. Y'never said anything to me about it in the first place.”

The Spy shook his head. “Not what I meant. Lying by omission is much the same thing.”

“It's kinda funny that you'd ask that.” He smiled again, some of the characteristic forgiveness in his expression that he recognized distinctly from a certain woman. “D'ya _know_ how many years I spent wishin' I'd met my father just _once_? Be able to have at least one memory of him to tell people about?”

“I know—and I'm sure I denied you a lot more than that right.”

This time the younger man shook his head. “Y'thinkin' about it wrong. I mean, I got that chance now. Even if y'walked out the door right now and we never spoke again. I got what I wished for, all that time ago.”

Another silence lapsed. The Spy moved forward a bit from where he had been leaning against the wall, his expression softening ever so slightly.

“Ma—I _know_ she must've missed you more than any of us could have, not knowin' about it. If she forgives you, I don't got a lot of right to say I don't.” He rolled his shoulders once more, but his eyes quickly darted up to meet the other man's fearlessly. “But y' _better_ not have hurt her. I mean, if you been screwin' around on _my Ma_ —”

Indignation at last sprung to the Spy's masked countenance. “Absolutely _not_. I can't imagine that you really believe your mother would be with a man such as that.”

“And y'wouldn't think the same thing, in my shoes?”

He rolled his eyes. “What do you think _I_ was to say, after we were caught doing such a thing? The less significance placed on our relationship, the better.”

A light tint of red had entered the young man's face, very much in contrast to his usual demeanor. “I—the less I know about all of that, the happier I'll be.”

“Oh, _please_. Did you think you hatched from an egg?”

“Actually? Sometimes I did,” the Scout snorted, leaning back. He put his arms behind his head casually. “But hey, at least _your_ team ran off with the dirty pictures _long_ before someone could scar me for life with 'em.”

The Spy lowered an irritated eyebrow. “All right, I did _not_ come here to waste my Saturday on _this_ type of discussion.”

“Eh, sorry.” That certain forgiveness that his mother had mentioned seemed to have settled into him. He looked back across the room at the older man again before his expression finally became more serious. “I still didn't answer your question, huh?”

“No, I don't believe you did. Or perhaps so, in so many words.”

Finally the Scout stood, closing the small distance between them. The Spy faltered a bit at his sudden closeness, a wary furrow in his brow. But the younger man merely smiled slyly, holding out his hand.

“I wondered about you too long to hate you now. And 'sides, y'aren't that bad yourself, Rey. That's what Ma always called you, ain't it?”

The harsh line his mouth had been set in softened, and hesitantly, the father accepted his son's hand in peace.

“So, do I at _least_ get to seeya _without_ the mask, after all this?” he smirked, shaking the older man's hand firmly.

A sigh came as the response, and he supposed the boy had not actually been expecting it when he reached to pull the fabric from his face.

As his face became exposed, he closed his eyes for a moment, picturing how pale and anxious he probably looked. Anonymity, the lack of visible emotion, the only things that had kept his humanity safely hidden from his enemies.

When his eyes finally made contact with the Scout's, he waited to see some sort of mockery in his expression, perhaps even disappointment, but the look of benevolence there instead struck him like a blow to the stomach.

That knot only intensified as he felt his son's lean arms around him in an awkward embrace. He stiffened, unaccustomed and unprepared for the gesture of affection, the quiet “ _y'stupid bastard”_ that issued from the young man threatening to brush away his careful composure.

Buried somewhere inside of him, he wished Kathryn could see them this way, the fleeting moment of acceptance that he had long considered himself unworthy of. Twenty years of absence was far from undone, no doubt, and his pragmatic half reminded him that they still had a long way to go with each other.

But as he stood there, a father to his son for the first time in his life, the despair that had weighed on his shoulders felt just a little bit lighter.


End file.
